


summer sun and solstice shadows

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: But Jaskier has never followed Geralt’s expectations. Geralt expected Jaskier to leave and never come back after being tied up and beaten in Dol Blathanna, and left Jaskier had, only to show up and worm his way into another of Geralt’s contracts not even two weeks later. It becomes a repeating cycle: Jaskier will leave, Geralt will expect to never see the bard again, and then Jaskier returns.or, geralt and jaskier begin an accidental tradition and develop a relationship along the way
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 64
Kudos: 621
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	summer sun and solstice shadows

**Author's Note:**

> mild spoilers for the book series, you've been warned. 
> 
> the art for this piece was done by the wonderful [daryshkart](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/)! you can check out the full piece [here](https://daryshkart.tumblr.com/post/621558623572836352/first-time-in-participating-in-any-fandom-event).
> 
> many thanks to myst for beta reading this mess. also i am not slavic, any traditions i learned about using google so if i butchered them i am SO sorry. i did try.

_summer i_ : Summer is Jaskier’s favorite season. He loves the flowers and the music and the festivals, the late nights and long days, the sunshine and the warmth. Geralt had expected the opposite; he’d expected the young bard he met in a tavern at the edge of the world to take after his flowery namesake — to wilt under the heated glare of the sun, to shrivel and die as the days went from pleasant to sweltering.  
  
But Jaskier has never followed Geralt’s expectations. Geralt expected Jaskier to leave and never come back after being tied up and beaten in Dol Blathanna, and left Jaskier had, only to show up and worm his way into another of Geralt’s contracts not even two weeks later. It becomes a repeating cycle: Jaskier will leave, Geralt will expect to never see the bard again, and then Jaskier returns.  
  
They’re in the middle of one such cycle, about a year after that day in the tavern, when they stumble upon a small town, nestled between a forest and a river, its people finishing up preparations for their midsummer festival. Jaskier looks positively delighted when he realizes that they’re just in time for the festival. He’s glowing brighter than the setting sun when he all but begs Geralt to stay, just for the night, please.  
  
Geralt grunts but doesn’t fully agree until after he’s checked over the notice board and secured himself a contract for the evening. He’s never been particularly fond of hanging around towns when there are festivities going on. Drunk humans and witchers hardly ever mix well. Still, he rents them a room at the local inn, sets down everything he doesn’t absolutely need, and prepares to head out.  
  
Jaskier stops him at the edge of town. The bard’s brows are furrowed and his mouth is downturned. He looks so unhappy that it gives Geralt pause, and that’s long enough for Jaskier to launch into his questions.  
  
“Are you not staying?”  
  
“Why would I?” Geralt shoots back. “People don’t like having witchers around for festivities. They think we’re bad luck.” Jaskier opens his mouth to speak again, probably to offer to come along, but Geralt cuts him off. “Go to the party, Jaskier. I’ll be back before dawn.”  
  
Jaskier still doesn’t look happy, and there’s an emotion building behind those blue eyes that Geralt can’t name. “I’ll play a song in your honor.”  
  
“Of course you will,” Geralt agrees, and that seems to settle Jaskier enough to get him to head back to town. So Geralt leaves, confident that the bard will sweet talk his way into someone’s bed by the time the last fire dies. Geralt heads in the direction of the setting sun, away from the beginnings of music and merriment behind him. 

The contract is simple, and it takes Geralt an hour, maybe two, at most. It’s enough time for most of the humans in town to be far too drunk to recognize Geralt as he makes his way back to the inn. He carefully picks his way back in the dark, following the faint sounds of music and cheers as a guide toward town.  
  
He emerges from the forest in time to see all the ladies of the town throwing wreaths into the water. There is a moment of peace and pause before a few young men break free from the crowd on the bank to go wading into the muddy shallows of the river. They each retrieve a wreath and emerge from the water, filthy and soaked, but happy. In turn, the boys seek out the girls who had thrown the wreaths, and hand in hand they leave the banks of the river to head back into town.  
  
Jaskier is among them. Even from a distance, Geralt can spot the bright clothing the bard is so fond of. His doublet has long since vanished, and the sleeves of his chemise are pushed up past his elbows. His cheeks are flushed and his grin wide as he wades into the river with the last of the boys.  
  
He emerges a few minutes later, chemise soaked through and clinging, but his eyes and his grin are blinding. Jaskier looks happy, far happier than Geralt has ever seen the bard in any of their travels together.  
  
But Geralt’s assumption had been right, Jaskier _had_ found himself a bed for the night. He watches as the bard walks off hand-in-hand with a pretty brunette before he turns and heads back to the inn.  
  
If he leaves the door unlocked, it’s because he knows that everyone is too drunk to think of challenging a witcher, not because he expects some idiot bard to come stumbling back half drunk in the wee hours of the morning.  
  
But Jaskier doesn’t come back that night, and the next morning Geralt sets out without him.

_summer ii_ : Geralt does his best to avoid towns around midsummer from then on, but especially when he’s with Jaskier. He doesn’t want to examine what the tightness in his chest was that morning when he woke to find the bard still hadn’t returned, nor why it ached so much to leave without him. _  
  
_The bard finds him again, of course he does. Two weeks after Geralt left Jaskier behind he once again has a shadow following him around and singing grand songs of his less-than-grand adventures. _  
  
_They don’t talk about how Geralt left that town without Jaskier. They don’t talk about how Jaskier didn’t return to the room that night. It’s not important, it doesn’t matter. It’s how they are. Jaskier loves often and loves freely, and Geralt has never been one to stay around for long when there are still monsters in the world. So they don’t talk about it, and they continue traveling. _  
  
_Of course, Geralt couldn’t avoid being in town every time the solstice happened and midsummer festivals began. He tries his best though, and he’s successful for about five years before his luck runs out and he wanders into town on the cusp of the solstice and sees people setting up a bonfire in the middle of the square. Next to him, Jaskier gasps with joy. _  
  
“_Geralt! We’ve got to stay here tonight!” It’s not a question, but Geralt agrees anyway, far faster than he probably should have. _  
  
_It’s fine, he reasons, he’ll just do what he did last time and take a contract that will keep him busy until the festivities have calmed down. But the notice board is empty. There’s no contract to be found here, not even one to rescue a rogue goat.  
_  
Fuck_ , Geralt thinks. He’s going to be stuck here tonight with everyone, with Jaskier, celebrating the summer solstice. He’s just considering telling Jaskier that he got a contract anyway and would be spending most of the night in the woods when the bard tugs at his sleeve. _  
  
_“Geralt!” Jaskier sounds excited, bright and breathless in the setting sun. “You’ve got to jump over the bonfire with me tonight!”  
  
“Jump the bonfire?”  
  
Jaskier nods, pulling Geralt with him as he heads toward the pile of sticks in the middle of town. “After the sun sets, they’ll light this fire. At first, individuals will jump over it as a way of cleansing insecurities and such. Then pairs will do it together, so we’ve got to, Geralt! We’re the best pair this continent has seen in a while, aren’t we?” And Jaskier’s grin has turned smug, daring Geralt to disagree, and his eyes are sparkling with mirth. _  
  
_None of what Jaskier has said fully explains the meaning of the tradition, but if it’s something Jaskier wants to do, it can’t be anything that bad. It costs Geralt nothing to humor the bard for the night, especially if it means he won’t be hearing Jaskier’s complaints about it for the next week.  
  
As Jaskier said, the bonfire is lit as soon as the sun goes down. Individuals, mostly the males of the village, jump the fire first. Many of them then circle back around and clasp hands with their lover, then together, they jump over the bonfire. If they make it to the other side with their hands still clasped, the crowd cheers and the village elder looks pleased. If they don’t, there’s a murmur of discontent that ripples throughout the crowd, but it is quickly suppressed by the time the next couple is lining up.  
  
At some point, Jaskier wanders over to the village elder and bends down to whisper in her ear. The elder looks surprised at whatever he asks, but nods her consent either way. _  
  
_When the last couple jumps the fire, the village elder stands and hushes the gathered crowd. “The bard has requested that he and the witcher be allowed to jump the fire.” She looks around at the gathered faces, daring anyone to challenge her. “I have allowed them to do so. After, we will make our way to the river together.” She sits back down as Jaskier threads his way through the crowd to Geralt.  
  
He takes Geralt’s hand with no hesitation and gives him a wide grin. “Are you ready, Geralt?” Geralt nods. “Good, hold on tight then.”  
  
Jaskier gets a running start and tugs Geralt along with him. Geralt lets himself be pulled, and when he feels the bard tense next to him he jumps as well. They land on the other side of the fire, hands still firmly clasped together. Jaskier is grinning, flushed and radiant in the flickering light.  
  
He lets go of Geralt’s hand, and moves out of the way so that the next couple can have their turn. Geralt still has no idea just what they’ve done, but Jaskier seems pleased. Over the bonfire, Geralt can just make out the knowing look the village elder is sending him. _  
  
_When Jaskier leaves with the crowd, the village elder beckons Geralt over, and he finds himself obeying. He takes a seat on the log next to her. The silence stretches, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the occasional shout from the river. Finally, the village elder speaks. “Do you know what you did, with that bard?”  
  
“He said that individuals would jump the fire first, to cleanse insecurities, and then he asked me to jump it with him, but he didn’t bother to explain what jumping the fire with another person meant.”  
  
“And yet you still did it without knowing the meaning?”  
  
“I—” Geralt starts, before he closes his mouth with a click. How does he explain to this woman that Jaskier has Geralt wrapped wholly and completely around his finger? That Geralt would do anything Jaskier wanted, and all the bard had to do was ask. It scares Geralt, the depth of his affection for this wayward bard who stumbled and wormed his way into Geralt’s heart.  
  
“I figured it wouldn’t hurt,” Geralt finally settles on, but it sounds like a flimsy excuse, even to his own ears. “If it makes him happy, then it could never be anything that bad.”  
_  
_ Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt can see the appraising gaze the village elder gives him. She turns back to the bonfire. “Jumping over the fire together is a test of compatibility for a couple. If the couple can make it from one side of the fire to the other without splitting hands, it means that the couple is meant to be. It is also considered a blessing of passionate love and faithfulness until they die.”  
  
Geralt doesn’t speak, doesn’t really want to consider just what it means that Jaskier had asked him to jump the bonfire with him. But it’s Jaskier, Geralt reasons; the bard probably had no idea what the rite meant for couples, just that it looked fun. Jaskier had never been one to withhold information when he knew it.  
  
The village elder stands, but doesn’t leave immediately. She turns to Geralt, and gives him one last piece of advice before she leaves. “I think you would do well, witcher, to realize just how much your bard loves you.” _  
  
_Geralt returns to the inn alone, and leaves the door unlocked like he did at the first midsummer festival he spent with the bard. This time, Jaskier comes stumbling in in the watery grey hours of the morning, hair mussed and smelling of sweet peaches. He lands face down in the bed next to Geralt and is asleep before his head hits the pillow.  
  


_summer iii_ : Seasons pass, winters fade into springs and springs into summers. Jaskier has worked his way into many of Geralt’s adventures over the years, but lately his appearances have become more and more sparse. Last Geralt heard, Jaskier was splitting his time between teaching at Oxenfurt and playing for nobles in courts across the Continent.  
  
He seems to be doing well for himself, but every time Geralt sees Jaskier, he’s hit with the reminder that Jaskier is just a human, and is aging faster than Geralt can keep up with. Jaskier must be reaching his 30s by now; no small feat for a human in a world as dangerous as the one they live in.  
  
Geralt can’t help but curse his own stupidity — there was a reason witchers were supposed to ignore emotions and weren't supposed to get attached. It was dangerous and made them sloppy, not to mention how short humans lived in comparison. It was a recipe for heartbreak.  
  
But Jaskier wouldn’t view it that way, Geralt knew. If he heard what Geralt was thinking, the bard would give him a soft smile and say, “Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, hm?” Jaskier was many things, but maudlin was not often one of them. Jaskier liked fine food, fine clothing, and even finer company, but he had never been one to linger on his mortality. So Geralt tries not to, either; tries not to think about a permanent lack of Jaskier in his life.  
  
The sun has long since vanished below the horizon when Geralt runs into Jaskier again in a small town off the banks of the Jaruga. It’s a fairly new settlement, one Geralt hasn’t bothered to learn the name of yet. Jaskier would probably know. The bard takes it upon himself to learn the name of every backwater hamlet, city, or town they pass through, as well as its mayor, duke, lord, alderman, or whoever was in power. If they were of the ruling class, Jaskier knew their name. **  
****  
** As it stands, Jaskier is too far into the wine to even consider remembering all that information, judging by the way he stumbles between people to make his way to Geralt. The town is in the middle of its midsummer festival, and it seems like the bonfire jumping is over with.   
  
“Geralt!” Jaskier yells over the din, like Geralt hasn’t already seen him. The bard snakes his arm around Geralt’s shoulders when he gets close enough. Geralt takes most of his weight without protest. “You’ve made it just in time! The village is about to go down to the river.”  
  
And Geralt remembers seeing the bard participating in this tradition, though he’s still unsure what it means. Something in his face must give him away, because suddenly the bard is rambling about the tradition as he tugs Geralt over to where wine is being served. They both take a cup and position themselves just outside the ring of firelight. Jaskier removes his arm from around Geralt’s neck, and Geralt finds he misses the warmth.  
  
“See all the girls with the wreaths?” Jaskier points with his cup, and the wine in it sloshes with the movement, soaking his sleeve. “When they all go down to the river, the girls throw their wreaths in. How it floats is supposed to be telling of the future of their love life. Then—” Jaskier pauses and takes another drink of his wine. “And you’ve seen me do this, the boys will jump into the river to fetch the wreath of the girl they like. It’s supposed to be a bold declaration of love, but sometimes it’s just for a night of good fun with no judgement.”  
  
“Is that what it is for you?”  
  
Jaskier blinks once, the question slow to filter through the haze brought on by the wine. When it finally does, he throws his head back and laughs. “Is that jealousy I detect, Geralt?” And then he’s giggling in his wine cup as he takes another drink. “But no,” he says finally, breathless. “It’s not that for me. I…” He goes quiet for a moment, watching as the villagers pick themselves up to head toward the water. “I’ve been told I love too easily for my own good. That one day, it will be the death of me.”  
  
And Geralt’s mind wanders once again to Jaskier’s mortality. He wonders if the bard thinks about it as much as Geralt has found himself thinking about it. Maybe the wine is a little stronger than he thought, because as the villagers clear out, he finds himself asking Jaskier about it.  
  
In return, Jaskier shrugs, eyes tracking the mass of people as they disappear into the dry summer grass. “I try not to dwell on it too much,” he says, already turning to face Geralt. “Life — my life, in particular, compared to yours — is short and fleeting. What’s the point worrying and fussing about something that inevitably comes for everyone?” He grins, eyes crinkling in the corner like he’s thought of an inside joke. The light from the dying bonfire lights up his hair like a halo. “When death comes for me, I shall face it head on, as us troubadours are wont to do.”  
  
Geralt hums in return, hand tightening around the cup of wine that had been thrust at him earlier. “I had you pegged as someone who would fear death, but you really aren’t afraid at all, are you?”  
  
“My friend,” Jaskier says, voice warm with humor, “I wouldn’t be following a witcher around if I feared something as small as death.”  
  
“Why do you follow me, Jaskier?”  
  
Jaskier goes quiet, and when Geralt turns to him, the bard is staring into the fire with a focus usually reserved for a tricky lyric in a brand new composition.  
  
“You want the truth?” Jaskier sighs and finishes off the wine left in his cup in one swallow. “I started following you because I was young, broke, stupid, and in search of a muse. I wasn’t lying, back then, when I said you smelled chock-full of stories.”  
  
“And now?” Geralt prods. Jaskier’s reputation has grown by leaps and bounds since they first met in that tavern in Posada. He doesn’t need Geralt to tell him that his creatures are nonexistent, because Jaskier has a whole journal filled with notes and facts about the creatures they share the Continent with.  
  
Once, ages ago, Geralt had told Jaskier that he didn’t need anyone, and he didn’t want anyone needing him. Jaskier had crouched down at the edge of the tub, unafraid, eyes bright, with a smirk that just bordered on infuriating. _And yet_ , he had said, _here we are._ Geralt had thought him insane.  
  
But here they were, indeed. Years later, and Geralt was only just beginning to realize just how much he needed Jaskier and how much it hurt to consider a life without him.  
  
Jaskier’s voice draws him out of his musings. “Now…” Jaskier rolls the empty wine cup between his hands. He won’t meet Geralt’s eyes. “I… You have to know that I’d follow you anywhere by now, spend forever by your side. You do know that” — Jaskier finally looks up, and his bright blue eyes lock with Geralt’s gold ones — “don’t you?”  
  
It’s not really an answer to Geralt’s question; it’s an out, but one Geralt is willing to give the bard. “Of course.” How could he not know that when Jaskier had been with him longer than anyone Geralt had ever known.  
  
“Good,” Jaskier mutters, leaning heavily into Geralt’s side. “Good, you deserve to know that….”  
  
His voice trails off, and when Geralt turns, he finds the bard asleep against his shoulder. Geralt doesn’t know what to do with the confession the bard had just unloaded on him, that Jaskier would spend forever with him, if only he had the chance. He had always suspected, especially after the midsummer festival, years before, when he had jumped over the bonfire with the bard. The words of the village elder echo in his mind as he carefully picks Jaskier up and carries him to bed.  
  
_I think you would do well_ , the elder had said, _to realize just how much your bard loves you._  
  
Maybe she had been onto something, something that Geralt was much too oblivious to see without help. Maybe Jaskier did love him. Maybe Geralt loved him in return. He goes to sleep that night with the room bordering on too hot, with Jaskier snoring in his ear, and with the realization that he would also spend forever with the bard, if only he had the chance.  
  


_summer iv_ : Geralt doesn’t get to spend another midsummer’s festival with Jaskier until five years later. It’s not for lack of trying, but between Jaskier’s rise in popularity and the war with Nilfgaard looming on the horizon, they’ve both been kept busy. They still run into each other, of course, but they never spend longer than a night together. Jaskier usually is off to some court function, while Geralt has to go track down yet another contract.  
  
They run into each other again in Novigrad, on the eve of the summer solstice. Of all the places Geralt could have wanted to be during the midsummer festival, Novigrad is at the bottom of the list. He doesn’t like the city on the best of days — too much non-human prejudice, not enough fresh air. The noise, the smell, the _people_ ; it borders on too much for Geralt, so he tries to make trips into the city as short as possible.  
  
Festivities are just starting in Hierarch Square when music cuts over the din of the crowd. Geralt doesn’t have quite the ear for it that Jaskier does, but he likes to think he’d know Jaskier’s voice anywhere.  
  
He shoves his way through the crowd, ignoring the glares and the people who spit at his feet, and sure enough, there is Jaskier, sitting in a circle of young girls with a wreath in his lap. He’s singing as they weave, and someone across the square has joined in with a lute.  
  
It’s a lovely reprieve from the cacophony of the square, and the piles of flowers here bring a freshness to the air that wipes away a headache Geralt hadn’t even realized was forming.  
  
He stops a few steps behind Jaskier, content to just watch for the moment. Jaskier’s wreath is still bare, just sticks lashed together in a circle, while all the girls have all manners of flowers weaved through the sticks. Jaskier has stopped singing and is now talking animatedly to the girls, picking up flowers and telling stories about their meanings before setting them back down again. After each story, a few girls will reach out and take some of the flowers, and Geralt remembers Jaskier talking about these wreaths as representations of the wearer’s future. The meaning of the flowers woven into them must be equally as important, then.  
  
By now, some of the girls have noticed him, and they’re getting nervous. Geralt sighs. “Jaskier.”  
  
Jaskier jumps at his name, flinches slightly before the voice registers. “Ah, Geralt!” He carefully sets his wreath to the side before standing and brushing off his pants. “You startled me!”  
  
“Expecting someone else?”  
  
“Ah,” Jaskier laughs nervously. “You know how it is in big cities like these, anybody could be watching.”  
  
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You go fishing for trout in peculiar rivers again, Jaskier?”  
  
Jaskier gasps, affronted. “I haven’t pissed off anyone’s spouse in a long time, thank you very much. It was just… a habit left over, from when I did.”  
  
“Of course,” Geralt says.  
  
“Anyway,” Jaskier stresses, eager to change the subject. “You’re just in time! I was helping these lovely ladies weave their wreaths for tonight. Would you care to join us, o’ mighty witcher, sir?” Jaskier does a sweeping bow, before looking up at Geralt with eyes that shine with laughter.  
  
Geralt shakes his head, but takes his swords off his back and takes a seat next to Jaskier. “Where did you learn to weave a wreath like this?” Geralt asks.  
  
Jaskier hums noncommittally as he picks his wreath back up. “I grew up with sisters, and every year I watched them. I guess at some point they started to feel bad for me, so they began to include me. It’s not… exactly taboo for men to weave these wreaths, but it’s certainly not common.”  
  
“Nothing about you is common, Jaskier.”  
  
“Why, thank you, Geralt!”  
  
Geralt hums, but doesn’t reply. He turns his heads toward the piles of flowers, and is not surprised to find he recognizes most of them. Now that Geralt has been deemed non-threatening, the circle falls into a companionable silence as the girls work on their wreaths.  
  
Jaskier watches for a minute, making sure no one needs any more help before he reaches for the pile of small blue flowers.  
  
“Myosotis?” Geralt asks, surprised. “Those are good as medicine for lung problems and nosebleeds.”  
  
“My—?” Jaskier begins, looking down at the flowers in his hands. “You mean the forget-me-nots? That’s their common name. You would know the practical use and the scientific name, wouldn’t you?” he murmurs as he threads the stems through the sticks making up his wreath. “Some people use them as a plea to not be forgotten — hence the name, forget-me-not.”  
  
Now that Jaskier is talking about it, Geralt realizes that he _did_ know that. Once, a long time ago, he had helped a young man hunt down rare flowers from dangerous places, and in return the man had given him gold and a wealth of information about the secret language of flowers. He remembered the man specifically telling him that there was a way to answer someone’s plea to not be forgotten.  
  
But did Jaskier have the right flower? Geralt’s eyes skim over the piles, until he sees the one he’s looking for. He picks a couple of them up. “Here,” Geralt says, handing the flower to Jaskier. “Carnations can be used to treat things like rashes and other skin irritations.”  
  
“They’re also generally associated with love,” Jaskier said. He carefully takes the flowers from Geralt and begins adding them to his wreath. “The pink one in particular…” He trails off, like he’s just realizing what Geralt has handed him.  
  
Geralt knows what it means. Pink carnations can mean ‘ _I’ll never forget you_ ,’ if used right.  
  
Jaskier never finishes his sentence. His lips press together and he keeps weaving flowers into his wreath. The next plants he grabs are some ferns — Geralt remembers them being a common theme in wreaths worn during all the previous midsummer festivals he’d been to.  
  
“What can you use ferns for?” Jaskier finally asks.  
  
“They can be used to stop bleeding, if it comes down to it.”  
  
Jaskier hums in response. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that most all the wreaths during midsummer festivals have these ferns woven into them. They stand for sincerity, humility —” Geralt snorts and Jaskier smacks him in the arm. “ _As I was saying_ , humility, bonds of magic, and bonds of love. It’s why the way the wreaths behave in the river is so important.” Once he finishes his impromptu lesson, Jaskier reaches for one last flower, a red chrysanthemum. “What about this one?” He asks, holding the flower up so Geralt can see.  
  
“They’re used for fever, colds, and headaches,” Geralt immediately replies. He knows the practical uses, but he can’t remember the language behind this flower. Red was for passion, intense and burning. But the flower itself? It’s Geralt’s turn to ask a question of Jaskier. “What does this flower mean, Jaskier?”  
  
For a while, Jaskier doesn’t answer. He threads the red flower in with the rest, leaving his wreath bursting with color. Blue and pink and red and green. When he’s finished, he looks back up at Geralt and opens his mouth to answer. But before he can, the girls start chattering.  
  
“Master Jaskier! It’s time to head to the river,” One of them yells. The rest of the girls begin clambering to their feet.  
  
Geralt follows them up, and offers a hand to Jaskier. He tugs the bard to his feet, and waits while Jaskier settles his wreath on his head.  
  
“Alright,” the bard finally says. “Let’s go down to the river.”  
  
They follow the crowd through the city and out toward the Pontar. Most of the people have gathered near the center of the river, facing inland, but Jaskier grabs Geralt’s hand and tugs him closer to the mouth of the river, where it feeds into the ocean.  
  
“There will be fewer people down here,” Jaskier explains. “I know crowds get a little… overwhelming for you.”  
  
A cheer rises from the crowd gathered at the center of the river, and when Geralt looks all of the girls from before have thrown their wreaths in and are watching them carefully. Each one makes it to the edge of the crowd with no issue, and then Geralt sees some of the boys move forward and jump in. They emerge from the water, soaked but happy, and go to find the girl who threw the wreath.  
  
Jaskier still hasn’t thrown his wreath. He’s pulled it from his head and is holding it in his hands. His thumb runs over the edge of a carnation, absentmindedly.  
  
“Are you going to—?” Geralt asks.  
  
“Yeah, yeah I am.” Jaskier sets his wreath back on his head and leans down to pull off his boots and socks. He rolls his pant legs up before wading into the water at the edge of the river.  
  
Geralt watches him silently. “You’re not going to throw it?”  
  
Jaskier shakes his head. “I made this with a specific person in mind.” He looks up, and locks eyes with Geralt for a moment. “And he’s been through enough violence.” With that said, he gently pulls his wreath off and sets it into the water. It floats lazily for a moment, before moving slowly downstream, toward where the river widens into the ocean.  
  
“What does that mean?” When Jaskier looks at him, confused, Geralt elaborates. “You told me once that the way the wreath floats was supposed to predict the wearer’s love life. What does yours say?”  
  
Jaskier laughs softly. “Honestly? I have no idea.”  
  
“You also said that someone going to get a wreath could be seen as a love confession.” Geralt cocks his head to the side slightly, watching the wreath as it floats away. The wreath had gotten caught in a current just out of reach, and it was now spinning in slow circles. “Do you believe in that?” Geralt’s eyes flicked back to Jaskier, unsurprised to find the bard watching him.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
That’s the confirmation Geralt needed. He was always better with actions than with words. Words could be misunderstood and used to lie, but actions spoke for themselves. He hesitates for just a moment before he wades into the shallows, past Jaskier and to where Jaskier’s wreath had stalled. Gently, he picks it up and makes his way back to Jaskier. “You never told me what this flower meant,” Geralt says, once he comes to a stop in front of Jaskier. “Don’t forget me,” he says, pointing to the small bunches of forget-me-nots. “I’ll never forget you,” he says, pointing to a pink carnation. “Bonds of magic and love,” he says, pointing to the ferns. Geralt rubs the petals of one of the red chrysanthemums between his fingers. “What is this one, Jaskier?”  
  
  
  
  
Jaskier takes a deep breath and then lets it out through his nose. “Red chrysanthemums mean the same thing as a red rose.” He’s fiddling with his sleeves now, eyes trained on something just over Geralt’s shoulder. “Love. They mean ‘I love you.’”  
  
“And do you?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Did you make this wreath with me in mind? Is that why you jumped when I said your name? Is that why you wouldn’t throw it?” Geralt asks, moving ever closer. He’s right in front of Jaskier now, close enough to touch. “Do you love me?”  
  
Jaskier tips his head back just slightly, to look Geralt in the eyes. “Why?”  
  
Geralt smiles softly and reaches out to settle the wreath back on Jaskier’s hair. It drips water down his face, and Geralt moves his hands from the wreath to Jaskier’s face, following the water as he wipes away any stray droplets he finds. “Because I love you.”  
  
That makes Jaskier crack. He lets out a thick laugh before reaching up to wrap one hand loosely around Geralt’s wrist. “Of course I love you. I told you, didn’t I? I’d stay with you forever.”  
  
Geralt’s smile becomes infinitely softer. “I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else.” And then he presses a soft kiss against Jaskier’s lips.  
  
When they part, Jaskier’s grin is blinding. “Took you long enough.”  
  
Geralt rolls his eyes and kisses Jaskier again.   
  


_summer v_ : If Jaskier had known then what he knows now — that Geralt would be killed in a massacre in the city he took his name from — Jaskier wouldn’t have let Geralt go so easily that night two summers ago. But he couldn’t have known, couldn’t have even guessed that something as simple as a _pitchfork_ would be the end of the mighty Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf.  
  
Jaskier spent the first summer without Geralt waiting for the man to appear. Eventually, he got tired of getting his hopes up every time someone with light-blond hair would walk past, so he snuck a demijohn of vodka from the festivities and locked himself in his room. The next morning he woke with a killer headache and an emptiness in his heart that didn’t get any better with the passing of time.  
  
It’s been another year since that night, and still Jaskier misses Geralt. This year though, Jaskier wasn’t going to be drinking himself into a stupor. Eventually the hurt would heal, but until then, the best thing Jaskier could do was honor the memories of the midsummer festivals he had spent with Geralt.  
  
So Jaskier spent the day creating another wreath, using the same flowers he had the year he made one with Geralt. Pink carnations and forget-me-nots as a way of declaring that he would never forget, red chrysanthemums and ferns for love, all woven into a crown of sticks.  
  
When it was time, Jaskier followed everyone else down to the river, but when they turned right, he turned left. He followed the muddy banks until he reached a spot where he was alone. The lights from the crowd were visible in the distance, but the sound of their chattering and cheers was carried away by the wind whistling through the trees.  
  
Jaskier crouches by the shore, ignoring the way the water soaks into his boots, and gently sets his wreath in the water. He gives it a small nudge, and watches as it floats to the opposite shore. It gets hung up on a rock, and Jaskier sighs.  
  
He had been speaking the truth before, when he told Geralt he didn’t really know what the behavior of the wreath was supposed to signify, but this seemed to be a pretty solid answer. His love life wasn’t meant to go anywhere.  
  
Jaskier scrubs his hands over his face, doing his best to wipe away tears before they fall. He hears a splash close by, but he ignores it, figuring it’s one of the boys from down the river chasing after a stray wreath.  
  
But then there’s water dripping over his hair and down his nose. He looks up just in time for his wreath to be dropped over his eyes. Jaskier stands up quickly and pushes his wreath back so that he can see.  
  
He opens his eyes to Geralt standing in front of him, alive and whole. “Geralt?” Jaskier’s hands are shaking when he stretches them out to rest on either side of Geralt’s neck. Underneath his palms Geralt is warm, and Jaskier can feel his heartbeat, slow and steady. “You were dead,” Jaskier finally says.  
  
Geralt reaches up to cup one of Jaskier’s hands. His smile is small but genuine. “Yeah,” he says. “But I got better.”  
  
Jaskier laughs, breathless and borderline hysterical. He pulls his hands free to smack Geralt in the chest. “You’re such an ass,” he says, but it’s tinged with relief.  
  
Geralt catches Jaskier’s hands with ease, and uses his grip on them to pull the bard in for a kiss. “I missed you too,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s lips.  
  
“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” Jaskier says. “My heart can’t handle it.”  
  
“I’d spend forever with you, Jaskier. But I can’t promise anything.”

“I know,” Jaskier sighs. “But you’re here now, that’s what matters.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
